


Torrhen the Red

by SandmanUlix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Greystarks, Historical liberites, Local Politics, Pre-Aegon's conquest Westeros, The Starks are overlords but not yet kings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 20:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19027426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandmanUlix/pseuds/SandmanUlix
Summary: The north before the conquest, before unification was a lawless place. Nigh a dozen Kings, none strong enough to unify it. As the line between lord and commoner are not yet drawn, what can one man accomplish when given the chance?





	Torrhen the Red

**Author's Note:**

> Subject to frequent correction.

Chapter 1: My kingdom for a Stark

‘God I’d kill for a cup of ale, it’s about the only worthwhile thing this town has.’ When one came to white harbor among the first things you smelled before your mind could even register you entered the gates were dung, salt and ale, what the locals called the “trinity of White harbor”. 

One of the only ports in the North, White Harbor was poorer than most fishing villages and only half as big as Gull town in the Vale. The houses were in ruins, most of those made from wood had been taken down to fuel fires during the winter and those few out of stone were only tied together with ropes of mold and vine. 

The place belonged to the Greystarks who much like their cousins in Winterfell had no real talent for seamanship nor trade for that matter as they left the port to fall into shambles and disrepair whilst they warred with their neighbors, either the Bolton forces to the north or the Flint clans to the west. 

Though there was one thing that thrived here couldn’t thrive anywhere else in the North, that being banditry. All the surrounding forestry crawled with bandits, brigands and thieves who made their meager living robbing fools of their money, their pockets, their lives or all three not necessarily in that order.

Nowadays though there wasn’t much money to be made for a lone brigand out to earn himself an honest living. Most outlaws had joined large groups led by bandit kings or some kind of organized conclave of thieves charged with securing tariffs from local merchants and wages for their men whilst also bribing our noble overlords with gold to line their fat purses.

But even with all those big groups most bandit kings were more like minor peasant leaders. At best their numbers reached 500 and no higher whilst their earnings all went to paying the men, the Greystarks and in some cases the local village chiefs leaving such poor wretches with only enough money for a small cup of ale and a warm bed. 

Yes being a bandit is quite the miserable living, I as one of the top brass can likely testify having barely gotten by on hard bread and water whilst scrapping a measly savings for my future. Not likely I’ll ever use it but it’s best to have it and not fear missing it. Though things might not stay the way they are, as those Greystarks I mentioned are currently holding signups for a governorship on the new outlying territories. An assured death sentence for most, and made only in hopes of attracting the most desperate of men. And attract it did. 

The requirements for governorship aren’t actually that steep here, you need to know your numbers and letters which I do, thank the southerners and their priests for that, though most North men would kill you for doing so; you need to have an amount of money saved up at 10 Starks or above which makes me overqualified at 11 and finally you need to have experience leading men and serving lords which puts me at the front of all the others having always paid my bribes to the Greystarks even paying more than required at times, though those bribes usually did not end up in the hands of the patriarch. And so it is with hope in my heart and a lump in my throat that I now go to request the position and possibly not get killed on the spot.

I pass the guards who lead me into the lords’ room. It is blocked by large oak doors held by iron hinges and the guard escorting me has to slam his fist against it just to make any noise. Tough fellow with big logs for arms but serious with a squashed face like the side of a boulder. My nerves are frayed as I go through every scenario I can think of; being killed on site; being rejected and then killed; being, rejected, laughed at and then killed; the list goes on from there and nothing ends well. I mean who am I a mere peasant to request a position for which likely half the North’s nobility is aiming for. My thoughts are interrupted when I enter the room. It’s warmer than anyplace I’ve been to before as the fireplace glows brightly illuminating the many weapons adorning the walls as well as the old maps laid out on the table.

“What is it, can’t you see I’m currently occupied?” I hear the lord say as I finally look at him, he’s an old but man but burly and shaggy like a bear, with a bushy beard and short cropped hair, his eyes are serious but as he looks at me and realizes why he’s been interrupted they grow bored and condescending. “Oh, you’re here for the governorship I presume?” He asks me as he looks at me expecting an answer.

“Yes, my lord. I saw the requirements on paper and as such believed that I could be of use to your lordship.” I answer quickly, no sense in losing my nerve now.

“Oh you do? So you have 10 gold Starks?” He asks skeptically trying to get comfortable in his mail and riding leathers. Gods, these people are relentless with their warring. Do they even sleep with their battle axes?

“Yes my liege, in actuality I am in possession of 11.” I try not to sound proud but fail miserably and he smiles in a snarky manner at my tone and obvious pride at my achievement.

“And you know your numbers do you? Where did you learn them from?” Suspicious he seems, not surprising as peasants and education do not mix well, just ask Rodrick Steel or his head for that matter.

“I do my liege, letters as well. I learned them from a southern priest who came to preach in the village where I was born.” All good for now I think, as long as the matter of how I’ve made my fortune doesn’t come up.

“And exactly what relations do you have to our house?” Ah there it is the deal breaker. I can only hope the hours of staring at old dusty maps have dulled his wit.

“Well my lord, I have served as a tariff collector for many years and have served loyally under your lordships patronage.” I say and hope he doesn’t catch on.

“Oh a bandit lord then. Well I’ll take it into consideration then, and what is your name then?” He seems pleased with that fact for some reason, but I cannot complain. He gives a look to the banner hanging above the door, it’s brooding greys and dull whites   
seem to match the houses reputation better each day.

“Torrhen Snow if it pleases your lordship.” The name Torrhen was a rare one around these parts, for good reason, not noble enough for a lord’s child and yet too pretentious for a typical serf to make use of it was one of those names to be forgotten. Were people not encouraged to remember them by the deeds of bastard and dissidents as it so often happened here in the unstable climate.

“Snow. I remember one of my brothers siring a bastard a few years back. How old did you say you were?” I cannot say I remember that well, but an answer I have to give lest I look like a fool. I recall all the times my coworkers have paid my drinks, which should make for a good enough measure considering how cheap Wolf’s dens men were.

“17 summers sire.” That’s a good enough age for someone to be a governor me thinks. A big risk with hiring more experienced men was that they tended to keel over a tad too quickly to ever bring stability to the regions they ran.

“Must be some other bastard then. All right then, you’ll be informed of my decision in a few days.” He says as slouches back over the maps having seemingly found something on the dusty crumbling parchments that he had not seen before.

Estatic as I can be I exit the castle and muse on what to do next. Not being killed by a lord when asking for a noble title seems like cause for celebration and so I take my earnings for this month and stop at the local pub.   
I pay for my liquor up front and proceed to get hammered over the next few days in a rambunctious almost rowdy manner. It becomes so routine like that I almost tire of it, key word being almost. Drink, sleep, fight then sleep again, over many days. After an especially long day of boozing I take an uppercut to my jaw from a fellow lover of liquor and pass out sleeping soundly for what felt like years but must have been days, only to be woken by a bucket of cold water on my face.


End file.
